There are times I wish I could start at the end. Endings are what people cling to; what we remember when the book has been shut. It's the ending we talk about with our friends and stay up until the early hours of morning pondering about. Perhaps that's why endings are so beautifulit is only then that we know the truth of all which came prior.
If only our beginnings could be as simple. What are we when we start but a blank sheet, ready for anything to be written. Some of us will be etched with beautiful design, calligraphic texts of love letters sent and responded to; others hastily scribbled upon and then crinkled up and tossed into the waste basket, never to be read again. Time can bring beauty or death, cruelty only as harsh as the quill decides to press.
In the beginning, we are all the same. No ink, no tears, no bends. We stand together upon a shelf, awaiting the first stroke of the master's quill to guide us to our eventual ends. We are pure, clean, and intact. Naivety is our only author.
It's a shame when he finally opens us, he uses permanent ink.
We never know if our future is bound in a cherished leatherback journal or torn and left among the cinders of burning barrels. We never know if our words will reach another and touch their heart or remain forever hidden in the bottom shelf of a writer's desk. And, we never know what kind of scars we will carry: slight tears or bends, or even pages torn from our spines, lost forever. It's only in the end that we come to know the extent of the damage.